


Freefall

by BreatheToDie



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics)
Genre: Past Relationships Mentioned - Freeform, hurt dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21575806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BreatheToDie/pseuds/BreatheToDie
Summary: Dick Grayson and Nightwing have one thing in common, aside from being the same person; they're both exceptionally good at falling. It's what hit's you on the way down that often hurts the most, an unstoppable spiral until rock bottom comes to greet your face.Nightwing falls a lot. Dick Grayson spirals.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 65
Kudos: 406





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Been a minute since writing. Feeling out the waters. Let me know if I should continue. More tags will be added later if this continues :)

The heavy, swollen moon hung low in the sky, a rare beacon in the Blüdhaven darkness. The winds must be carrying the smog far tonight, Dick mused. City lights still block out brilliant stars, leaving the incandescent satellite lonely. Lean legs pump across a level cement roof, tensing and thrusting, _faster faster faster,_ until reaching a bottomless concrete summit. One leg bends just slightly, a coiled spring unleashing in a weightless leap. A body soars, clad in black and blue skin tight over an arching figure flipping the canyon between one cement prison to another. A silent slip of a landing, feet soft and the body is in motion again, gliding across the city.

Does freedom ever taste so sweet? A giggle almost burst forth from aching lungs, sucking in frozen air that bites all the way down to the oxygen diffusing sacs. His body _aches_ , but the thrum feels good, and each step and flip and soar is only that much more earned. Skidding underneath pipes and over railings, a performance for none, flawless and extravagant. The lonely moon his only eye, his only judge and jury and sentence. His only confident. He is worshiped by many, known by few and loved by one. One who always watches, silent and undeniable, who knows his dirtiest secrets, deepest insecurities. The moon always has his back, his blind spot.   
  


Who else could gain the love of the moon, but he who performs for the moon alone. 

Not a quiet night, Dick muses as he slinks into his apartment window, stretching in like a cat. Bruises and shallow cuts, as well as a deep slash across the back of his thigh, awkward for anyone who didn't have his back braking flexibility. Just an annoyance for him. 

A trail of Nightwing equipment lead to the bathroom, where he turns the shower on _hot_ , steam risings instantaneously around him.   
  


The shower is quick, and his skin is too pink to be healthy when he steps out, breathing quick and sharp, until he manages with trembling hands to shut the tap off and the cascade of water halts, silence steadying his breath and the pressure he didn't feel crushing down on him until now fades slightly. He stitches the leg wound quick, and tries to avoid looking in the mirror, rushing out before the steam can dissipate and he's forced to look at years of scars… of memories.

Brushing a slender hand through thick, ebony locks, he trip-collapses into his bed and sinks into it, abused muscles trying to melt with the comforter. After a few minutes of exhausted immobility, he grabs his phone to turn on music or a podcast or anything. Anything so he's not left alone with his head and drifting thoughts, anything to not _think._ The light blinds him in the darkness of his room, and then his attention is caught by a little blinking message. Curious, he taps the bubble and his eyebrows hike up in surprise at the name attached. Roy. 

The older male had made it clear last time they crossed paths exactly how much he didn't want to see Dick, along with a few arrows to send the message home. Distance, time and pressure had played its role on the old titan group, strain where laughter use to fill. Dick couldn't remember the last time he spoke to any of them, too ashamed to start making contact anytime soon when he'd sparked the match and threw it to the wind, burning the bridges he once cross in company; the last time alone. Roy in particular had been hot and cold with Dick for a long time now, unafraid to call him on his bullshit and willing to admit his own wrongs. The last fire Dick burnt, was one he didn't think could be forgiven by the hot-headed ginger.   
  


_I'll be in Bl_ _ü_ _d tonight. You better be home. - Roy_

A soft smile threatened to form, evident in the curling twitch at the edges of his lips. The dark tickled his raven hair, curling against sharp cheekbones and caressing his slender form. Warmth burst from his chest, and he curled around the phone. Roy wanted to see him. Maybe mend some bridges. He couldn't stomp down the soft butterflies of hope, fluttering his senses. 

  
He was jolted minutes later by sharp, neighbour waking pounds on his front door. He slunk to his feet, tossing on a hoodie and hopping into sweats, realising Roy meant 4am as _tonight._ He slid through his shabby apartment, cursing his poorly placed light switch on the opposite end of his cluttered house which - _no Tim, it's an organised mess -_ if the bloody lights were on wouldn't leave him falling his way to his front door. He opened the door as he hit the switch, which probably looked a bit funny, to his unexpected guest. 

  
Roy Harper stood in his doorway, wearing fury and fire, heart in a heap and eyes brimming with hatred. Dick's own heart plummeted, right down to his feet and cold fingers plunged through his chest, seeping into his lungs, stealing his breath. "Roy". He whispered. 

  
Roy shoved his way into Dick's tiny apartment, hands twisting in the fabric of his hoodie as he slammed Dick against his bathroom door, the knob digging into his lower back. He leaned in close, teeth bared and growled with guttural rumbles of rage. "This is your fault!"   
  


Dick scrambled at the others man’s hands clenched in his shirt. Roy had a good few inches on him and mass, Dick would be lying if he said he wasn't afraid. A tremble overtook him at being held up, surrounded, enclosed. His heart jackhammered out of his chest, and he tried desperately to find his voice, choking out, "W-what?" 

Roy all but snarled, eyes gleaming as he flung Dick into his sitting room/kitchen. If it weren't for Dicks superior falling ability, that would have been a nasty tumble, maybe Roy knew he'd be able to catch himself. Either way, he went with the throw and rolled on his shoulders into a low crouch, facing his once-friend. Roy was on him before he could even lift his eyes to the man, tackling Dick to the floor. _That hurt._ Books, glasses and other miscellaneous items stabbed into Dick, sprawled on his back with Roy's legs pinning his hips, weight smothering him against the floor. 

_Panic_ followed. Deep, heart stopping, nerve overloading panic. Dick froze, rigid, and stared blankly at the redhead. Roy's mouth was moving, lips curled in scorn, and maybe seeing something on Dick's face, he reeled back an arm for a brutal, solid punch. Heat blossomed on his cheekbone, head forced to the side, swelling already. The pain yanked Dick from the brink of madness, and he grasped every ounce of coherency to utter another "What?" 

“Your asshole arch-nemesis stole my daughter, you fucking prick, and I have no fucking clue what he’s doing to her, and you’re the only fucking person he’s willing to talk to.” Roy spat, glaring daggers, fingers twitching as if fighting the urge to deck Dick again. He seems to decide against it, and shoves off Dick harshly to stand and pace.

Dick lied there, immobilised by horror. Lian taken, by someone after Dick? He adored the child, but had little relations with her due to his conflict with her father. Or more like Roy’s conflict with Dick. In short, he had barely seen her, and she was far from who would be usual targets to get at Dick. It also inferred the kidnapper’s knowledge of their identities. “W-who?” Dick managed to gasp, struggling to his feet. He was clammy after the near-panic attack, and felt weak on his feet, muscles burning.

“Deathstroke, who else.” Roy thundered, mid pace with his hands buried in his strawberry hair.

Dick’s blood ran cold at the name. Deathstroke hadn’t tormented Dick in a while, but Dick did well to avoid the man. It wasn’t a name he took pleasure in hearing. An unconscious shiver slithered up his back, shuddering his shoulders.

“What does he want?” Dick croaked, attempting some deep breaths to situate himself. He needed to get into business mode. Roy’s baby was taken. Because of _Dick._ He softly wondered _when does it stop. When._

“You.”

A heartbeat. “Where?”

\----

He had moved to follow Roy to his car, but the other man had snapped, “Take your bike. I’ll text you a location.” He was now flying over the bridge to Gotham, wind snapping his skin, turning his knuckles white. He was tucked low for warmth and to act as a wind shield, clad in but his suit which while insulated, worked best when he was moving.

Downtown Gotham was the destination, by the harbour. He still was a bit in the dark about the entire situation, which as if right on cue, summoned a call from Roy which he quickly sent to his earpiece.

“Wilson won’t say what he wants. He said just you, but I told him where he can stuff that. I’m going in. Kory and Jason will be outside, ready to intercept. Otherwise, don’t fucking talk to them.” The last part a threat, poison in intent. Like Dick, _poison._

Guess Roy heard about Dick and Jason’s last fight. It had been bad. They were still fumbling around each other, dancing the edges of too much and not enough. Tentative where the line was drawn when the flip between easy banter and snapping anger could be one wrong word. Watching movies and cooking food, only to turn sour at one misstep. One wrong insinuation.

Dick had figured Jason told Roy. They were closer than brothers, and often who Dick suspected Jason ran to after a conflict. They weren’t a relationship, so Dick had left it unspoken to the few people he still had contact with.

“Dick.” Roy huffed, and Dick quietly missed the ‘Dickface’ nickname that use to take its place. “You better get my fucking daughter back.”

“We will.” Dick assured. _No matter what._

Lian was a brood of the Titans, blood to a boy wrought with love, and an inability to care for a baby, a child himself. She was blood to one but loved by all. So many aunts and uncles, Dick remembered holding her in his arms, handing her to Roy. He remembered the promise, they all bound themselves to silently, to treasure and adore the child of the Titans. To protect her.

_No matter what._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys.   
> 1\. Just want to warn, this chapter is pretty graphic and violent. Beware. (Also the rape/noncon tagged is in the past so don't worry about that)  
> 2\. So I was absolutely stunned by the response. I haven't written in like six years and I'm just happy ye are enjoying. Um, I don't think this chapter was as good as the first. I hope you enjoy anyways! I've like read it a billion times trying to fix

A large, decrepit warehouse on the abandoned side the of the harbour, typical for villainous endeavours, was where Dick pulled up his bike beside Roy's car where the redhead was tinkering with equipment. He was talking when Dick pulled up, likely to his crewmates Dick was forbidden from interacting with, but quickly cut it short at Dick's approach. 

  
  


Blud's bigger, wealthier sister was cold, and the moon hid its face behind dark, brooding clouds. A light misty rain was hailing from the heavens, leaving teardrops on trees and a haze about the streets. Roy's hair was damp and frizzed, probably from running worried hands through it perpetually. His face was pulled by a frown, almost a grimace at Dick, eyes hidden behind white lenses. Dick wasn't sure he'd like what he'd see in them; glad they were obscured.

  
  


The ginger opened his mouth, as if to say something, when his phone chimed in instead. He paused, one leather clad hand clenching and unclenching, before the man opened it and snapped, "Were here, Deathstroke, now where the fuck’s my daughter. If you've laid a sing-" 

  
  


Deathstroke cut him off. Dick could just barely hear the lilting lumber of Wilson's drawl. Could hear how calm the man was, but also purposefully casual to set Roy off. "You ass!" Roy snarled. "We'll be in. No funny shit either, or I'll blow your knees out."

  
  


The burner snaps shut, almost crushed in Roy's vice like grip. "Let's go." Roy says, curt, already striding towards an entrance. Dick wants to ask the plan. The deal. He feels like he's walking in blind, and it's not unusual in their line of work but obviously Roy has some back up plan. One he doesn't think Dick needs to know.

  
  


He doesn't dare ask. 

They speed down damp corridors and through rusty, stiff doors. Not a word is hushed. Roy’s broad, red clad back forever in Dick’s sight, tense and unwavering. He could reach out and touch it, press long fingers into hard muscle, beckon Roy turn back, look at him. Can almost convince himself he’s inches shorter, in an eye-catching suit, colours of a morning bird. Can almost feel his footsteps lighten to a bounce, about to spring over the archers shoulders, send him a lippy, snarky smile and feel Roy’s body react in habitual humour, a sly smirk as the redhead would catch his ankle and send them both to the floor.

_Where did the time go?_ Dick wonders, the back in front of him so large, _how could he keep up?_ Like Batmans’ back, and Jasons’ back. Sturdy, and solid and all Dick has been ever able to do is use them as a springboard to push from, to gain that extra step.

Roy doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t once look back. They weave silently through an empty concrete jungle, the soft pit-pat of their feet the only courageous sound to break the ice.

Dick’s nerves tingle, and his stomach flutters, a sixth sense warning to confrontation ahead developed through years of vigilantism. One huge door sits at the end of a moulding hallway, and Dick _knows_ his nightmares lay beyond, claws curling around a precious child drawn into an adult’s war.

“Be ready.” Roy says, redundantly, as if Dick was about to walk in there with his fingers up his ass. Dick’s not even walking in there in the first place. Nightwing is. Nightwing is always ready.

Dick doesn’t respond. Roy still doesn’t look at him.

They enter.

\--

Slade Wilson stood in all his armoured glory, red and black down to his boots. Armed to the teeth, on a raised section of the room likely where overseers once walked, with a _child leash_ attached around his waist and a furious brunette gremlin clawing at his calves. “I told you, don’t be mean to my daddy!” Her howls embrace them as they enter the light, something almost brightening on Roy’s face at the sight of her alive, and healthy, and _angry_.

Slade beckons them forward leisurely, gloved hands crinkling. Lian squawks at the sight of her father, and yanks on her tether in an attempt to run to him. It hurts to watch, but they’re here and they’re going to fix this.

Dick gathers every ounce of his control, of steel, and steps closer. “I heard you wanted to see me, Slade. You didn’t have to run around kidnapping and terrorising children, could have just sent me a text.” Humour is Dick’s best defence, calm and collected.

Slade huffs, head tilting just ever so slightly. “I like to make an entrance sometimes.”

“So what do you want this time? A slave? A soldier?” Dick cuts to the point, tired. “Someone to cook you dinner and tuck you in at night? Just say the word and let the girl go. I’m all yours.”

A shiver attempts to rattle his body, throat constricting at the words. _I want to be mine,_ that small, soft voice whispers, hidden in the shadows of his mind. He closes his eyes tight and smiles, all teeth and lip thin, as wide as he can, arms outstretched. The universal sign of _have me/take me/do what you will/I’m open._

“Catch.” Slade deadpans, and Dick’s eyes slit open to something small, and dark, like a hard drive, sailing through the air to him. A hand is already reaching out unconsciously as Roy shouts something that sounds a lot like –“No!”- and his fingers clasp around something solid and cool,

And then his hand lights on fire, burning, heat searing soft flesh through his suit, and _oh yeah, you were trained better than to grab objects enemies toss at you offhandedly._ Dick doesn’t even have a chance to blink, before Roy’s shout is drown out by rushing and rustling and warping, and the world lurches around Dick like some sick rollercoaster, his hand hissing and melting.

Then abruptly, there’s soft earth crunching below, and his knees brace for the weight that was weightless a breath ago. Tall, sombre evergreens stand like soldiers around a quiet clearing. Ten feet away, Slade straightens his shoulders, a black hair child still bound to him.

“What is this!” Dick hisses, the device clattering to his feet when his burnt, charred fingers reluctantly unclench.

“A forest. A mission.” Slade deadpans, unclipping the rope around his waist. Lian, the darling, doesn’t even look afraid. Arms crossed in a huff and daggers aimed like arrows at the monstrous man, she never seemed so much like her father. Or her mother, actually.

“Give her back!” Dick demands, inching closer without lifting his feet, sliding ever-so-slightly. Then Slade drops the rope, and Lian’s eyes light up like a child on Christmas morning, yelping, “Uncle Nightwing”, as chubby little legs pound across the distance between them.

She doesn’t even see it coming. Dick does. Her hands reach towards him in a grabby motion, toothless grin splattered across a rosy face, so unbelievably joyful after being held for however long with an assassin. So _free,_ and light as she bounds across the clearing, steps unfaltering; bright blue loving eyes fixated on Dick. Solely on Dick. Her _hero._

She hadn’t spared a second thought to her kidnapper, so heartbreakingly innocent as she runs for the arms of safety.

Only Dick has never been safety. He casts no shadow to protect, no arms to hold and _support._ He wears no cape to shield, and instead lights himself like a wildfire in the vast night to draw all the monstrous moths near. Dick is poison, and heartbreak, and danger. The monsters follow him into the dark, eat up all he holds dear, and he _lets_ them.

For a moment, no longer than a breath, Dick is almost glad she doesn’t see it. For Dick’s eyes never strayed too long from the assassin. The fingers tugging sleek black metal, arm craning slowly in pinpoint accuracy. A breath, as a red and black clad chest raises slowly, exhales and-

Lian beams at Dick, reaching, _reaching,_ smile stretched across a baby-fat face, and Dick’s body had started moving the second Slade’s hand twitched for his gun. _A bullet is faster than a body,_ Jason said once.

It’s all Dick can think, as he reaches, _reaches_ for the sun child kissed by midnight’s veil, hair dark as night and soul free as a spirit. His legs feel like lead, but he’s moving quick as The Flash, as swift as Superman.

He doesn’t think. He lunges as the gunshot cracks through the air; a deadly promise. His body wraps around hers, and pain lances through his stomach as they impact the ground, tumbling with Dick crowding his body over hers, rolling so she always lands on him in their uncontained tumble.

Relief pours through every pore in his body, as warm wet slicks up his abdomen. The bullet wound might be bad, but Lian’s ali-

The body he cradles flops lifelessly, three and a half feet of fumbling child deadweight in his grasp. Neck limp and eyes staring, unblinking. Red drizzles down her forehead, a hole dead centre oozing crimson.

Dick raises a trembling hand slick with warm scarlet, brushing raven locks from a pale face, streaking blood across her clammy cheek. “L-Lian.” He croons, softly, desperately. His breathing stutters, catching and choking into a sob. “L-L-Lian!” Dark blue eyes stare unhearing, unmoving. Dead.

The soft crunch of twigs does nothing to tear Dick’s sapphire eyes from rapidly fading blues. From the wrongness of red on pale and raven curls matted in blood. He strokes her hair and whispers sweet nothings, begging the girl to come back.

“You have more enemies than you know, Dick.” Slade states softly, crouching before two shattered children of war. “You heroes think you know all the dark does. All it can do.” The man stands again, clicking and tinkering with the device that sent them here, leaving it on the rapidly cooling corpse of Lian Harper, nestled in Nightwing’s lap, crimson seeping from both. “The universe is more contradictory than we want to admit, and people will never stop _wanting_.”

When Dick finally manages to raise wet eyes, the blurry, solid back of Slade is all that greets him, walking away. Everyone always walks away. The device in their lap begins to whirl to life, hot and devouring and sucking.

“Lian Harper would become a monster. This hit came from the future.” Dick think’s he hears, as his senses warp and waver, dark and every colour at once and then nothing.

Nothing exists, for a moment, except the dead baby in his arms, still warm. Those eyes reflecting back nothing, like glass in a doll. A broken, bloody doll. Crimson taints every edge of his vision, and all he feels is the lifeless weight of Lian in his arms. She’s not heavy, a slip of a thing, but never before has Dick felt so weak. Like she’s the weight of the world and she’s pinning him to the ground.

He doesn’t ever think he’ll forget that weight, like a phantom in his arms. Not even one hundred pounds and she’s the heaviest burden he thinks he’ll ever bare.

Sound erupts then, like a viscous volcano, building and churning until it bursts it’s top; a violent explosion. He focuses on where his knees press stiffly into hard, cold concrete as hands yank him. He fights through the numb iciness enclosing him, a frequent battle recently.

Roy is screaming, tearing the tiny body from his arms but the firm pressure never alleviates. Dick’s eyes slowly roll down, looking at the empty space and wiggles his fingers, attempts to reconcile the weight with the fact that _nothings there._

He’s hauled upright, hands fisted beneath his collar and bruising on his bicep. A rag-doll drawn to dance, limp and lifeless, until he’s flung and forced to remember his feet. Staggers, as grey all around comes into view, a blip of blazing, _raging_ red in between. Roy.

Roy’s knuckles come down once, twice- Dick forgets his feet again and sprawls to the ground, the base of his head connecting with a solid _thwunk_ to cement-, three. Deja-vu hits, as Red Arrow dives on top of him to keep him down. Four. Five.

The booming eruption that sound was loses force, and tunes into focus as his head throbs and his ears ring, and suddenly clarity enwraps him like a blanket. “Why. You fucking ass! Why. What did you _do_! My fucking daughter! My Lian!” Venom spews forth from Roy’s voice like lava, molten and smouldering. Six. Seven.

Someone pulls Roy off, and Dick slumps there, feeling like that blanket turned into shackles. The very atmosphere is draped on him, as if he’s been thrust in the abyssal valleys of the sea with nothing but oppressive pressure and mountains of water; unable to breath and no chance at reaching the surface.

Kori sobs, wretched and broken. Dick would know that sound anywhere. It mingles in with the heaves and howls of a broken father, his heart ripped savagely from a bloody chest and pinned to the ground for all to see. Sinking. Sinking.

“Did you kill him?” One voice, low in danger and rough like nails on sandpaper, demands. Dick rolls onto his side and hauls himself to his trembling legs. Blood seeps from the gunshot to his side, bullet buried somewhere in the carnage of flesh, muscle and organs. Hunched, curling over his pain, he chances a glace at Jason who hasn’t lifted the intensity of his gaze for a second since posing his query.

_Now you look at me._ Dick laughs humourlessly inside. Irony.

Jason sees all he needs. Dick’s lack of response is an answer all on its own. “Get out.” He turns, dismissive, but one needs know Jason a very short time to see the lines of rage shaping him. Shoulders tight; fingers fidgeting; breathing hard.

Get out is a term Dick has become quite acquainted with. Every corner he turns, every chance he takes. Every good thing he’s ever had, that he ever thought was his - _told was his_ -, has turned their back and hissed such a definitive. _Leave. Don’t ever come back. Drop your keys on your way out._

Poison.

It’s a hobble out, his legs leading him absentmindedly down corridors he unconsciously memorised, until chilled air and moisture embrace his stumble onto dreary Gotham streets. He stands, lost as to what comes next. Numbness takes his hand, pulls him gently into her sweet embrace, and runs a hand through his bloody hair.

She whispers in his ear and he follows her lulling voice. His bike rumbles beneath him, and blood oozes like tar from his side. He thinks he barely clings on, as he arrives in a haze at his apartment door, trembling and clumsy.

He feels nothing as he falls into bed, caked in red not all his own and a hot weight pressing subtly against his forearms.

“I feel nothing.” He gasps, as hot wet tears run rivets down his cheeks, soaking the neck of his uniform. The sobs are rough and dry and squeeze his lungs and heart and chest until he thinks his ribs will break with just the force and pierce his heart the way it _feels_ it’s been ravaged.

He hugs himself, arms wrapped around a bruised body, and curls his knees as close to his crippled form as he can. Strings of “I’m sorry” stream from his lips all night and into the morning, broken only by heaving breaths and strangled cries.

_No matter what,_ he had promised, and figured himself forever condemned for such a callow declaration.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello Everyone! Sorry its been a while. Was planning on updating sooner but Christmas exams took hold! Should be more frequent now :)   
> As always, hope you enjoy and let me know what you think.

The sun was a blazing furnace in a vast peach sky, waves of heat radiating from the earth’s surface in the sweltering dead of summer. The air was thick, and the little breeze tickling trees did nothing to alleviate the unbearable temperatures. The scent of brine and salt penetrated the small, cramped town bustling with life, and the lapping sound of the ocean hung in every corner of the hillside hamlet.

Europe was as delightful as always, rich in culture, landscape and language. Dick loved each dialect, the way two people from similar towns could have such different tongues and enunciate letters in a completely new manners that led to various sounds and meanings. He and his mamma would talk for hours, helping out townsfolk and busking the streets for spare coin, chatting to anyone who would offer their ear.

A blur scurried down a hectic, narrow promenade with each storefront dashed in colour, only made quainter by the paint’s fading accents due to salt and sun exposure. Down curving roads and swooping through side alleys, over fences and down gardens he sprinted, until through a set of thick emerald bushes peppered in vibrant purple and orange flowers, the ocean sprang upon him in all its endless essence. A mirage of blues full of promise, protecting all colours of life creeping and crawling wherein no man could ever reside.

Dick loved the ocean, heaving in deep breaths of the stinging, sharp salt scent hovering coyly in the brisk breeze. He loved the colours, and the constant vow the tides gave the coast to always return. It amazed him that they never faltered and wondered at the moon who mamma said was their silver wedding ring, securing their pact.

He tore his eyes from the sight and turned down the coastal road with determination. He could swim later. He had a friend to visit. The circus had just arrived in the little town in Italy, mostly due to Dick’s own insufferable insistence. He had been smitten by the small town not usually worth a circuses time and money, and begged for his birthday to simply return come their next tramp through Europe.

Familiar roads fell to small, quick feet and soon he was shouldering his way through a short, midnight blue door as a chirpy bell sung his entry. “One moment,” A warm, crackling voice called in Italian as dark colours engulfed him. The store was lit only by sun windows, letting patterns of light and hues accent the walls and fill the room with a magnitude of comfortable, natural glow.

Clustered around the room, among jewels, stones and candles were corals; from bright, vibrant chunks to smooth, cold ivory. The tangy ocean scent outside was overpowered by husky spices and smoking incense, and through curtains an elderly, sun-kissed women shucked out, hair bleached white and one eye big on her wrinkled face. The honey brown eye glistened at the sight of the tiny, raven haired child who promptly threw himself at her, nearly barrelling her down despite his runty stature.

“Mio pettirosso!” She sung, thin arms decorated in jingling, clacking bracelets clasping tight around the boy. “You came back! Did you miss me so dearly!”

“Of course I did!” He giggled. “I told Mr. Haly this is all I wanted for my birthday.”

“Well, mio pettirosso, I have lots of work to get done this morning, and with your help we’ll have loads of time!” She kissed both his cheeks, and dotted rose oil behind his ears.

“Let’s go!”

\---

“Miss Luna?” Dick called from the outcrop of mossy green rocks where he was picking periwinkles. She hummed towards him, one eye focused on the task, the other shroud behind a cloth hair piece.

A moment later, the women realised the boy hadn’t uttered another word. She looked up to where he was perched on angular boulders, his lips curled in a frown. “What is it, moi pettirosso?”

He avoided her eyes shyly, fingers picking at strings in his shirt. “Last time I was here you had seven fingers. Now you only have six.. Is someone hurting you?” Earnest, clear blue orbs riveted her to the spot, almost dropping her basket of periwinkles as she looked down at her knuckles, all swollen joints and thin bones. In the place where four fingers once grew, were white, scarred knobs.

“I told you last time, no one lays a hand on me. I always choose the path I set my foot down, and sometimes that is costly. What are a few fingers anyways, moi pettirosso, when the gift is so much greater in return?” She smiled radiantly, and no one could dare argue a lack of joy.

“I suppose,” Dick scampers back to her, agile and surefooted the entire way. “I just don’t know what I’d do without my fingers. How could I fly?”

“That’s why you always control what you give.” She pinched his cheek, “You only offer what you can manage without, and you always have something to sweeten the pot. If you have nothing worth living for, you have nothing to give.”

Dick nodded thickly, thinking he understood the world at that moment. Her words would whisper in his ear years later, laughing gleefully, and the sinking feeling of something not quite right would fill him. A gut-wrenching sensation as his skin would crawl from her shadowed touch, and her voice would chant his name again and again.

\---

In the walled, overgrown garden by the coal fueled hearth, Dick spied the gleaming dark charm strung around the one-eyed women’s neck. Dusk was about to settle, the evening hues of orange, magenta and rose setting the sky alight. The lights gleamed off the black, reflecting fire and passion.

“Miss Luna,” He queried as he crushed pink corals, and plucked spines off dead sea urchins. “What’s that necklace? It’s so pretty and warm.”

A frown curled her lips, thin brows furrowing in upset. She looked down, clasping the dark material. “Pretty, you say?” Something dark crossed her eyes, an emotion a child couldn’t comprehend. “Moi Potirosso, do you remember how I told of the story of moi parents? How they dealt in dark matters, and met a darker ending?” Dick nods, the story still sending chills through his form. “Before they passed, they gave me their work and this necklace, to call upon in my time of need. I was a spiritual child, and I remember the age in which this necklace called to me, when before it repelled.” Dick nods again, remembering last year when the necklace was enclosed in glass on a wall, not sparkling so enrapturing on her golden neck.

“It is your turn.” She threw ingredients into the fire collected from their day, along with leaves and finally, beads of blood sliced from her palm, ruby red. The fire seemed to thrive as if alive, churning in colour and nature. “When most in need, don’t forget about the darker side of the moon.”

She passed on her necklace as she passed on her hugs; on the way out. He ran brisk to the circus tent, the scent of sulphur thick on his clothes and lessons sharp at the back of his mind. The necklace, dark as night felt heavy in his pocket. His mother would see it upon his return, and rage about its meaning, its vile nature. She would curse the women who gave it to him, and bespeech horrid thoughts upon his mind. Madame Noana would shiver at the sight of it, and they would throw it to the sea after the show.

Dick would sneak out late, quiet as a mouse and strip to retrieve it from crashing waves, consistent and steady as they forever caress the shore in an unforgivable cycle of give and take. Tonight, they gave to the fated boy destined to find, with the assurance that some-day they will too take.

Rip. Devour. Shred. _Take. Take. Take._

_\---_

A lot happened in a short amount of time, most of which is a blur of pain, resolve, delusion and a vague plan. Standing in a tidy graveyard, over loose, freshly laid soil two figures watch silently. A single torch illuminates a thin ring amongst the absolute dark of night, and a large duffle is between them.

“Dick.” A pale hand clasps a trembling, golden one. A blue hood drops, as she presses into his space, latching onto both of his hands as indigo locks of hair fall before a sharp, porcelain face. Between two amethyst eyes, a midnight blue jewel glistens. “You don’t have to do this. It’s not you’re faul-“

“Stop.” Rough but firm, he shifts his eyes away from her pleading ones. It doesn’t matter, he knows as she refuses to release his hands, even when he tugs them sharply. She feels him better than he himself ever could. Like strings attached around their beating, bloody hearts, drawing them together and pulsating with emotion sent down the line in waves even continents apart.

She searches his eyes, lips thinned, before something settles in her features, and she drops his hands at last, leaving warm prints in her wake, almost distracting him from the faint _weight_. Dick throws an old, sandy blanket before the grave, and they sit cross-legged across from each other, copper pot between them.

Jars and powders swirl around her, highlighted in dark magic, as if of a mind of their own they pour and swirl and sprinkle into the pot. “Where did you get it?” Raven shifts him a look from behind a thick, metal bound tomb, one eyebrow arched sharply on a deadpan face. Dick reaches for the shadowy necklace instinctively, sliding a finger down the smooth surface.

“My childhood.” At the vague answer, the book floats down slightly, so the extent of Raven’s unamused face can be clear without words. Dick resigns, Raven has always been easy to talk to. “A lady in Italy. She took me on as her pupil a few Summers as we passed through, I didn’t realise the extent of her… teachings. It blew up the last year we ever visited.” Dick flopped to his back, legs still crossed and mapped the stars. Raven made a noise to continue.

“She kidnapped me, and tried to sacrifice me to get her daughter back. It’s blurry, but I remember her raving about how I had some essence in my blood, or something, and that I would be a worthy trade.” Orion caught his attention, solitary but together; at least to the eye of the earthly beholder. “Then, just this dark being, hissing to her in a language I didn’t understand. Whatever the deal was, they didn’t want it-… _me_ , and it killed her.”

When Dick chanced a glace to his companion of the dark arts, she had a thoughtful look, but the crease in her forehead was all worry. “What is it?” As he sat up, intent to thumb it away, a tight, stinging caught him mid lift and he gasped, hands hovering over his screaming abdomen.

“Dick! _Dick._ ” Her small hands were lifting his shirt, short form crouched before him. He looked down at her huffed sigh, to see blood specking tidy bandages. Her hand and eyes glowed, before heat, gentle this time, spread where she touched him. He’d been healed by her many times, the feeling tied up with memories of vicious fights, and tired celebrations as they dragged each other home.

“You’re still the same.” She spoke softly, with a small, genuine smile almost curling her lips, and when her eyes turn to his, they’re so fond and accepting, Dick almost flinches and starts crying all at once. Her petite hands find his face, and she presses her forehead to his.

His eyes did start welling now, oceans overfilling and spilling down pale cheeks. “You break everyone heart, because your own is so loving. You’d sink to see them swim.” _Die to see them live,_ echoes after her words, but both know better than to comment.

She sets back to work, and Dick palms at wet, closed eyes. His side freshly sewn back together and scarring, he rotates through his breathing exercises. He _has_ to be composed, and confident. Dealing with demons and the like, you can’t show a crack, or they’ll dig their fingers it and peel it apart.

Eventually, as the mixture turns a deep, dark crimson, Raven takes his hand as he clasps Antipatharia in the other, the black coral. She hums the Latin name in chant, and slices a neat cut through his palm over the pot, holding his one hand with her two as the blood wells, before ceasing her chant and turning his palm to let his blood spill in.

She bows and begins to hover in her meditative stance, indicating him to begin. As Dick chants he brings the coral between two hands, one sticky with blood and one clean. An entrance and an exit. Raven can’t stop her friend’s foolish endeavours, but she can at least make sure he has a path out. The shadows can be deadly, without someone watching your back, Raven knows too well. And Dick blends in with the shadows too flawlessly.. _casually_ ; as if he belongs there. Dick’s the sun, hiding behind the moon’s eclipse, thinking he’s shielding them from his burning light when in actuality, he’s starving them from his warmth.

Although, she supposes, you’re allowed to tell people no. He’s allowed to keep his light to himself, and he’s in his right to venture out alone. To chose to be alone. She’s done it. She just wishes he had the people he wanted to, watching his blind.

His grip tightens, and the black skeleton lets out a piercing, shattering crack as it crumbles into powder, floating down like a cloud into the mixture. For a moment, all that’s there is an eerie sense of crackling energy, thrumming through the air almost tangible, and sapphire blue eyes meet wide, horrified violet.

Then their world bursts in slithering, encompassing darkness reaching from their pot, expanding and surging around them. It closes into a large bubble of oozing black, the stars shut out leaving nothing but them, the grave and the grass beneath their feet.

“I was wondering when you’d show up, Dick Grayson.” A deep, smooth as velvet voice rings out, rumbling with delight. A light breeze is the only indication as a presence slips up behind him, sending shivers up his back as the female voice croons into his ear. “I’ve been waiting, so _desperately_.” Dick swirls on the balls of his feet, position defensive, forcing his muscles to relax and posture to reflect comfortable ease.

“Dick. This isn’t-“

“Shut up, Portal!” The voice sneers, spitting and Dick watches in horror as the vicious black attacks Raven, folding around her body in restraint and over her face. _Over her face_ ; _She can’t breathe._

“Leave her out of this!” Dick snarls and forces the terror out of his voice. “You said you’ve been waiting for me, let’s talk, once she can breathe.”

“Hmmm, _fine,_ ” the voice whines like a child and the mass unravels around Raven’s head, her eyes wide and panicked as she heaves in shuddering gasps of oxygen. “We’ll leave her here, while we go play. Don’t worry, he’ll be back soon, Portal.”

“Dick, _wait-_ “ Raven hollers, hand reaching from the mass and narrowed eyes beginning to glow angrily. But that’s it, before a hole of absolute black opens beneath him, and his stomach clenches for the first time in years at an unexpected drop, gut wrenching as the ground beneath him _literally_ disappears. Gravity takes hold, as it always does, and he sinks to the sounds of her screams for him.

And he’s falling. _Falling._ Like his parents, like his world. No end in sight, and no beginning either. For a moment, fear does take a hold. He’s human, after all.

But he’s been falling his entire life, and many have ended in injury. But not the majority. He’s been catching himself for a long time, but that doesn’t negate the time when there were two people catching him instead, their hands locked around his forearms in a catcher’s hold. The same arms that now bear a different weight, this one heavy and crushing where the other was light but firm.

Falling is easy. Falling is natural. And he’d be lying if he ever said he didn’t enjoy it, heart racing and blood rushing, body plummeting and watching the world fly past. After you fall, you always fly.

Dick forgets where he is, and why he’s plummeting, and stretches his arms wide. Air whips his hair and tickles his form, rippling his clothes and his breathe comes quick, but light. He smiles, maybe the first genuine one in a while, and enjoys the moment of not knowing and not caring.

A screech rings out then, bouncing and echoing, shrill in nature and ear-splitting. Dick holds his ears, as the blackness revolts in utter anger. He’s roughly thrown to a surface, his fall evidently over, and everything is still of the same dark material, but a form is towering above him.

A womanly body draped in shifting darkness and a hood completely shrouding her upper face. “You weren’t supposed to _enjoy_ that. What’s _wrong_ with you.” She hisses, stalking away from him as he pushes himself to his feet. A fire sits a way off, with a pot broiling on it. “I think I might just like you.”

“Well, friendship aside-,” Dick snipes, “I’m here to make a deal.”

“Yatta, yatta, yatta. Why else do you humans summon me. Lian, right? And you’re here to offer me your life in exchange.” She stirs the pot, smoke spiralling out purple and emerald. “Luna taught you well.”

Dick approaches, the feel of the black coral still upon his hands, along with that _weight_. “She didn’t teach me well. She raved about this necklace and my purpose, then tried to bargain me. But she did teach me about prices,” Dick remembers her knobby fingers. “I think a life for a life is fair.”

The being stares at him, almost in disbelief and turns back her head to let out a roaring, guttural laugh. She rubs her eyes under her hood as if to wipe tears, even though Dick doubts she can cry, and points at him. “There’s about a million things I’d rather do to you, than kill you. Your despair is so… _tasty._ ” She licks her lips, raking her eyes over his form.

Dick shifts, uncomfortable and suddenly unnerved. Her smile turns sharkish, feeding off his fear. “What do you want?”

“Many things. I want you constantly in the dark places, with your monsters and nothing else. No one. I want you to never see the light again.” At his eyes widening in alarm, she chuckles again and waves him off. “I will bring you back to your friend, you serve nothing to me here. And the little girl. Here is my price; From now on, every lie you tell you will bear on your body. You are a man of smokescreens, and your dark shall always be now, in the light.” Thin, painted lips curl over a sneer, all sharp teeth and malicious delight. “Now return and let me feast upon your descent.”

Two fingers pointed like a gun, she smirks at him and pops “ _Pow._ ” Burst from her pseudo-gun, black lightning shoots across the distance between them, sinking into his chest with force. Something vibrated black through his veins visible through his skin as it reverberates inside him. It swiftly settles, as if nothing is amiss.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Boy Wonder.” She shoos him off, turning to her pot, and as he blinks, the breeze returns with disorientation. He comes to a still picture, Raven frozen in her binds, a wild look of destress melding her pretty face. As he inhales, the world turns back on. The wrappings around Raven vanish into smoke, as does the bubble around them.

“W-what?” Her eyes fix on him, disbelieving. “You’re alive. Is Lian- Did you?” She stumbles for her words. “What did you trade?!” Is what she settles on as she turns to him, enraged. “What did you _give_?”

“Honestly, the deal was pretty alright. I expected much worse, like a life-time of torture or something.” Dick muses, deflecting sheepishly as he rubs the back of his head.

Raven knows he’s deflecting. “ _Dick._ ” She snarls

“Wait, _Lian!_ ” Panic erupts, as he flings himself towards the grave.

“What? No I said your name- _Oh._ ” In a fluid motion, she sinks beneath the ground and returns within moments with a sleeping, _breathing,_ unscathed little brunette dressed in the prettiest dress Dick ever saw anyone manage to force her in. She hated dresses.

Dick feels a pang; remembers how he hadn’t seen her at the funeral. He hadn’t been invited.

He pushes that aside. “You have to take her home, before she wakes up.”

“What!” Raven growls, frustration leaking out in a thick aura as she almost yells the word. “What do you mean, aren’t you going to bring her back? Don’t tell me you did this and-“  
  
“Raven, _please._ I don’t want anything to do with Roy. He doesn’t want anything to do with me. It better for everyone if we just leave this in this graveyard and never speak of it again.” Dick turns from her, shoulders slumped. Her heart pangs; she hates seeing him defeated. It went against every essence of his being.

“Fine.” She agrees grouchily, tucking the warm child to her chest. “Then I’ll be back. To talk. Don’t try running or hiding. I can always find you.” Eyes glowing, she leaps into the sky, head tucked low and robe wrapped around the girl to defend against the cold, thinner air up high in the atmosphere.

Dick flops back to the grass, exhausted and empty. Raven can find him here; he doesn’t even have his bike. He thinks the firm, phantom weight is gone, but itching at the edge of his mind is the thought that it’ll never truly leave. Scars are lessons, so you don’t make the same mistake twice.

Dick’s littered in marks; he wonders if one day when he dies will they look at the canvas of his skin and wonder on all the pieces of art, left there by all the people he’s ever trusted and loved, and the ones left by those who seek to harm him. Isn’t that what hero’s do? Put themselves in the line of fire to take the target off innocent’s backs.

Sacrifice. Sacrifice. Sacrifice, his scars chant.

“Protect.” He whispers back to them, hand reaching up grasping for stars.

Always _reaching_.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. I know it's been a while... hehe. I'm honestly terrible at punctuality, but the next chapter won't take so long! So here you go, let me know what you think! :)

The room is dark, and the air sour; stale in the way only days of relentless mourning can turn it. It curls on the back of his tongue and sticks to the roof of Jason’s mouth like a bad taste he needs to spit out, or wash away with beer. _No alcohol,_ his mind unhelpfully supplies as he cuts his eyes to Roy, a drowning man at sea, delirious with grief and on the verge of taking any desperate out.

It’s evident in the hanging, boneless slant of Roy’s shoulders, and present in the dark bags rimming dim, half-lidded eyes. Silence has materialised from the missing echoes of a child’s laughter, and formed into a wall, so thick and unmovable, not even Kori had been able to blast through.

And boy, does the man have good reason to be in such a state. Jason’s eyes burn, and he quickly turns his head as he realises, he’s been staring unblinking at the ginger for long enough to make his eyes ache and dry. He shifts his tongue, and the funky taste returns.

The funeral had been surreal. Not in a magical or beautiful sense, but in its air of anticipation. As if waiting for some veil to drop, or to wake from a violent dream. A penny thrown, and waiting in a hush but never hearing the clatter of it dropping.

A sharp, metal clatter shoots through the ringing silence, and Jason jumps nearly a foot off the couch as Roy slowly, as if his head is lead in weight, turns towards the kitchen where Kori is swearing up a storm and plucking pots from the floor. Jason can just make out a variety of prepped vegetables in Kori’s unending attempts to feed their friend in his time of need. Alien culture or something.

Time sloshes on, undisturbed but for Kori’s distant muttering in her home tongue to herself. Jason’s thoughts are a chilling, vengeful calm. His mind works over scenarios, and ammo, and the deep, burning desire to cave Slade’s face in with his fists. The green tinges the edge of his vision, almost tantalising in the want to give in but reigned short by the delicious plots of murderous content that zip through his mind. All the ways to make Slade _suffer_.

Jason’s good at that. Making people hurt. Since he was young, he could pinpoint the weakness behind even the most craftily constructed masks, like dirt smeared over pristine, sharp suits. With few select words, he would bring it to life, focus in on it and grip the edges of that crack to tear it open, and let that throbbing, broken inside spill out, dripping and sad. Sometimes he wasn’t even aware he was cutting so deep, before the words would leave his mouth and slice across the room to the person under his attention. (A victim to his wrath, and steel tongue).

That sour taste almost fades, as the thought of blood and revenge linger a sweeter sensation. The green flames roar and lick through his vision, enticed and encouraged for only a moment, before simmering back down to a background broil.

Jason will blame it on the pit, and his murder-fuelled daze later; the other two were just getting sloppy, and that would need mention another time. No one turned a head as small feet patted down the hallway, clumsy but soft from being a light mass. _Familiar_ footsteps. Perhaps it is the familiarity, despite the impossibility, that no heads turn as a sleepy toddler rounds the bend to the sitting room/kitchen, one hand fisted in her eye and hair in an absolute disarray.

Jason’s head almost snaps as it turns, eyes wide as saucers and he hears Kori yelp and drop something heavy and metal in the kitchen – _again_ -, as the little brunette pouts big lips on a chubby face, and whines, “Daddy! I wanna sleep with you, daddy!”

Jason can’t move, Kori sounds like she’s stringing a line of disbelieving curses in her native language, if Jason had to take a guess. He’s stuck somewhere between, _this is a trick_ and _holy crap, Lianne is alive._ His head swivels to Roy as the child approaches him, looking on the verge of tears as Roy doesn’t twitch an inch. He hadn’t even turned to the newcomer, or startled at his companions reactions.

_Roy doesn’t think its real._ Jason realises, as Lianne whimpers, “Daddy!”, and reaches for the ginger with grabby hands.

“Roy, _she’s real!”_ Jason hisses, slapping the man.

The touch seems to jolt Roy from whatever deep, dark whole his mind had been. He falls to his knees, gasping, and draws the girl into his embrace. He chants into her hair, assurances and promises and her name half a million times. He rubs her small arms, and doesn’t let up his grip an inch, as the little girl falls into sobs with him.

Jason and Kori stare, wide eyed at each other over the crumpled mess of a family, reunited. She catches his eyes, and he reads the worry and scepticism in the lines of her face, and strain of her smile.

“Roy.” Jason whispers hoarsely, as if he hadn’t had a drink in days, and frowns at the pull on his throat from rising, blundering emotions. The fearful happiness, and dreadful anxiety.

Roy’s eyes cut to him, steely and drowning, over the top of his daughter’s head. For a moment Jason’s mind stutters, struck by the clear, calculative depth, and sharpness to his gaze. Roy had been at this gig longer than Jason, and he could pull himself from drowning in a split second to deal with a situation. He’s already miles ahead of Jason.

“You never forget the smell of your child, alive and well.” He clips, stony, and then the wave of relenting rationality, “Take a sample of DNA. Bat’s will have the equipment to test it, yeah?” The curve of his mouth curls apologetically, “If you’re down with going-“  
  
“I’m good.” Jason interrupts, “We’re on… at least working terms.”

“My friends, I believe the sooner the better.” Kori floats towards them; her eyes unrelenting on the matter. Despite that, she turns to Lianne and engulfs the girl in an enormous, floating hug that has the child giggling in delight.

Everything is gonna be okay…

\---

Raven had stayed for almost two days. The poison of the curse worked through his body, and he had been a fevered, sick, tormented state. She had found him unconscious when she returned, already sweating as his veins burned black, and his body fought the wicked taint. It was for naught, she whispered to him as she dabbed his head with cool cloth and kept him bundled in his blanket despite him fruitlessly kicking them off again and again. The deal was made, and every monthly cycle of the moon when it rose to that same position, the curse would worsen and his body would rebel the unnatural contract.

Between savage, aching dreams he would remember moments of great clarity. Like the poem Raven spoke to him to calm his terrors, and the scent of the herbal tea she continuously stewed, despite Dick knowing they were in his apartment and he hadn’t owned tea a day in his life.

It broke after two days that felt like both forever and a second, all at once. Dick was still bone-tired, and sore all over. His mind felt like a fog had descended, and sometimes the words Raven said went right over his head like a soft breeze.

He remembers when she was leaving, she levelled him with a look that would almost amuse him in how much concern she could bring into a deadpan, no-shit’s-taken glare. “I’m coming back soon. Gar needs me, but I’m going to do some research into who exactly that was, and the nature of your deal. And we need to figure out how to manage it.”

“Raven,” Dick struggled to smile, unsure after she had seen him so weak, and he felt small. “I-I’m fine. You don’t ne- ah!” Dick had gasped, clutching his wrist as the inside began to sting. They both stared as he pulled his hand away, and red was brushed across his skin. In slanted, scrawled writing, was the words ‘I’m fine’.

Raven looked torn, her eyes darting from the blood to his face. Dick noticed her numbly, a dawning sense of horror growing at the seeping red dripping from those words.

The silence finally triggered Dick, shrugging and wiping it on his pants. He waved her away. “It’s fine, wasn’t even that deep. I just… I just need to get use to it.”

Her lips drew into a flat line, and he knew he didn’t fool her but she nodded anyways. “I’ll be back in a few days.” She reinforced. “Rest. Eat. I filled your meagre pantry, so eat.” She pulled up her hood and had turned to leave, before slowly turning back around and eyeing him up to down warily. “And no patrol!” She commanded, glaring him in the eyes until he looked away guiltily. Then, with a swoosh of her cape, she melted into a shadow through his floorboards, and was gone.

The sudden emptiness was oppressive, and the air felt thin. Short of breath, Dick closed his eyes and listened. Concentrated over the thumping, pounding panic bubbling to the surface and listened. A clock ticked, and the silence roared.

\---

Work was exhausting, and most of the other force thought Dick a snitch, so often he was alone on patrol. Everything was almost back to normal, if one dismissed the slightly darker bags than usual haunting his eyes and the bandages around his wrist. Which is why, as he’s picking up his fifth coffee halfway through Wednesday, five days since what Dick has come to refer to as ‘the ordeal’, an unknown Gotham ID sent his phone into a frenzy.

Nearly dropping the coffee and the phone in an ungraceful fumble, he manages to slide his thumb over the answer button. “Grayson.”

“Hello.” A snobby, posh voice replies in a high-end Gotham accent. “Mr. Grayson?”

“Yes.” Dick snorts, redundant. _Why else would he answer the call with that last name._

“This is Gotham Academy. Damian Wayne needs to be picked up. He’s been suspended for three days.” She enunciated haughtily, a condescending tone grating through her voice.

“Why?” Dick asks, and then thinks better. “I’m not even his listed contact anymore, with his father back.” If there’s a bitter tinge to his words, he doesn’t care because that one little change had been like a slap to the face, when Dick had been the one going to parent-teacher meetings, and forcing Damian to do his homework, and teaching him to play nice with the kids his age.

_And running around in a cowl far too large, and a mantle too heavy for him to hold high._

Failing, and small, barely gained victories, and a darkness Dick never thought he could pretend to be. Because that’s all it had been. Another act; another persona. Someone to fill in too-big shoes until one of the others – Damian – could. If Damian would even want it still, by that time.

A droning, buzzing sound irritates Dick, before he realises it’s the snobby lady rambling on about calling ‘Mr. Wayne’, which she says with a high pitched giggle, and Dick can imagine her twirling her hair. Bruce was busy and told her to call Dick.

Of course he did _._ It’s not like Dick had a job, or a life. It’s not like Bruce _cared_ if he did _,_ anyways, and Dick felt more sour for it. He told the lady he’d be there in an hour, to her huffing, put-upon agreement when Dick snarked that he was in Bludhaven, and that an hour was pushing it even. Reluctantly, he calls the only friend he has at work; an older, veteran cop with a wicked sense of humour and a taste for justice similar to Dick’s own. She answers immediate, and Dick feels guilty because this is far from the first time he’s asked her favours. She’s the only one that will follow through.

She immediately shuts him down on his apologies, and tells him to collect his misbehaving brother before he does something more foolish, and promptly hangs up before Dick can thank her.

Dick sighs, and takes the exit that will lead him all the way to Gotham. He can almost hear Jason’s stabbing voice, sniping that he’s a pawn and nothing more. _Good dog_ , Jason would spit, his eyes a venomous judge and jury. _Run back with your tail between your legs._

Dick almost misses Jason, cutting words and all. The words ‘I’m fine’ throb on the soft skin of his wrist.

\---

When Dick finally arrives, Damian is quiet, but Dick can feel the literal eye-roll and condescending sneer Damian would love to be pulling. Dick’s genuinely shocked by the accusation, and when he turns to Damian, the boy looks away almost regretfully – the scorn doesn’t leave, but it’s almost and that’s enough for Dick.

The principle tries to exaggerate the expenses to fix the waterlogged bathrooms, but Dick uses his best Gotham snide learned from Bruce’s socialite parties, and cut’s him down with the figures Bruce already invests in the school.

The journey to the car is silent, and Damian can feel the weight of Dick’s curious, calculating stare on his back. He is shocked, however, when Dick quips, lightly, “That must have been one hell of a set up to pull that amount of damage off. Want ice cream at the park?”

Damian tries to hide his surprise, because he was ready for annoyance, and a lecture. He knows Dick had to leave work early, and if Dick is half the detective his work shows, he already knows Damian didn’t just essentially total the boy’s bathroom for ‘fun’, or out of rebellious rage as his teachers presumed.

“Only if they have pistachio.” Damian drolls cautiously.

Dick watches Damian from the corner of his eye, following the hunched fold of his arms, crossed and his twitching, tapping fingers as his legs kick out in masked indifference. He smiles, and shoots his arm out in a surprise hair rub, to which Damian promptly hisses out of his reach, clawing.

“To get ice cream!” Dick hollers, and fiddles the radio onto an annoying, upbeat pop song that he can sing to loudly and prod Damian into having fun.

“You are a child, Grayson.”

He thinks softly on all the cries for attention he made as a child, desperate for Bruce’s time and willing to do anything for even a disgruntled, stiff day off where he sat around Bruce’s office and watched him do paperwork.

He remembers that sometimes, after Bruce was done and if Dick had properly repented, they’d get hot chocolate from the corner store down the block. It was sickeningly sweet and came out of a plastic machine. But the cup would warm their hands, and they’d look up at the city from which in a few hours, within the shadows of night, they would then look down upon.

They go to a bright, over-priced ice-cream shop and sit on the swings to eat their treat. It’s a bit too cold for ice cream, with the wind icy and nipping their hands, but the sweetness over their tongues; bursting and the warm companionship as they float back and forth makes it worth it.

Damian breaks the silence, looking bored but there’s a deceptive lilt to his voice as he asks, “Will you be staying the night? You haven’t patrolled in Gotham in a while.” Dick hears the, ‘with me’ hanging on the end of Damian’s tentative question.

Dick recall’s how his last argument with Bruce ended; ‘He’s my son!’ Bruce had snarled, shoving Dick aside. ‘You need to leave.’

“Maybe, little D.” Dick agrees hesitantly. He’s not entirely sure he can handle Bruce’s displeased gaze, and the pressure of the mansion, but Damian missed him enough to get suspended, and Dick isn’t about to throw that away.

They walk around the park, before Dick dramatically pokes Damian right between the eyes and sets him off balance, whispering “You’re it!” as the young boy shrieks in a girly manner he will later, vehemently deny as he finds his footing. Blinking at the spot Dick had just been, Damian surges off with a rageful battle-cry and storms after his brother, leagues ahead and no sign of slowing.

They feed the seagulls bread they buy at a corner store, when it turns out there’s no ducks because, _oh yeah, Gotham._ A misty rain makes the darkening park hazy, and wets them through in seconds, and by the time they’re shivering, heat on full blast speeding in Dick’s shitty car up the road to the mansion, the mist has turned into a furious storm. The rain pelts against the windshield in such torrents, water runs down the front in a constant stream that makes visibility basically non-existent.

Dick parks as close to the main door he’s able, and has one second of hesitation before Damian scrambles from the car to pound on the main entrance, and hasn’t left any room for ‘maybe’. Dick grunts and shoulders the car door open against a hurricane level wind, waging war against nature for a moment as he struggles with the door before managing to clumsily slip out. The rain instantly soaks him, stinging cold against his face as he rushes into the opening doors of the mansion, warmth radiating through as he tackles Damian to the carpet ground at the feet of a disgruntled Alfred.

“Get off me, Grayson!” Damian snarls, but Dick plays ‘I have no bones-syndrome’ and lies slumped.

Towels appear of Alfred’s butler magic and land on their heads as the old man slips away, calling “Glad to have you for the night, Master Richard. You can help your brother clean the puddle you have invited as your guest.”

The rest of the evening until patrol passes quickly. Damian has extra homework, and begrudgingly heads to do it after Alfred’s sixth scathing comment about respecting your school. Dick tucks himself away in a window he would frequent as a child, high up one of the attic walls. He brings a blanket, and lets the vibrations of the rain on the glass pane lull him into a half sleep.

The terror doesn’t grip him as hard tonight, and he breathes through any rising panic before it can overcome him. He used to love the rain. Would welcome its passion and feel its wrath, cold and burning. It feels nostalgic, and he lets that sensation wash over him until the silent cries of Gotham force him from his perch.

It’s getting late. He has to face Bruce at some point, and he knows that’s easier than facing the masked disappointment in Damian if he takes the cowards route.

He feels like a coward, though. Lies scatched upon his skin and a suit that never seems to fit right. Or maybe it’s his skin he doesn’t mould into. A flying Grayson. Robin. Nightwing. Batman. Dick scoffs.

He closes his eyes, and inhales, listening. Footsteps, rain, thunder. A door banging slightly in the wind. He may be a coward, but not in Damian’s eyes, so he softens his face and wills himself together, heading downstairs.

_Liar!_ His heart shrieks as his arms droop down; leaden.

\---

“Damian!” Dick gasps and drags his bleeding body to a listing upright position. He hurls himself across the rooftop, his gait uneven and stumbling, as his vision weaves and wobbles with one eye crusted closed with blood.

_How did it go so badly._ Dick’s gut wrenches, and he flings himself over the side of the building Damian just dropped from. _Why did he have to go out with me, tonight._ He reacted faster than he thought, and Damian is within reach, falling limply to concrete ground in a boneless heap.

Dick, despite all body parts screaming in agony, hasn’t missed a step and grasps Damian around the waist. He shoots a line, made for one, and it’s by the skin of their teeth that enough tension ceases their decent and sends them catapulting across the grimy streets of Gotham, Dick wrapping himself around his unconscious brother and bracing the boy’s head and neck. His shoulder aches, dislocated, and his eyes close.

_Move!_ Dick’s mind screams, and his eyes snap open. They’re in a crumpled heap at the doors of some rundown apartment. Damian is slumped on him, cradled in Dick’s arms and he heaves himself and the boy up again onto trembling legs. The left one screams in protest, fiery gushes of agony wrapping up his leg, so Dick narrows his eyes and moves on blindly instead.

_Get Damian to safety._ His body complies numbly, and he rushes down a dark alley and hides the boy behind some boxes. He braces himself against the dingy wall, clenches his teeth and thrusts his shoulder back into place before crouching over Damian.

“Please, Red. Don’t ignore me.” Dick whispers, holding the emergency tracker in his dirty palm. His and Damian’s earpieces were destroyed, and Dick long ago cut all traces Bruce’s overbearing paranoia out of himself. His last hope was this small, button sized emergency beacon given to Dick when Jason _cared_ , before things went bad, and Dick has no idea if the other man will actually come.

_Please come. Please._ Dick hopes, thumbing the silent button and placing it beside the unconscious robin. A high pitched cackling echoing from the distance, eerie, makes his skin crawl.

“Birdy, birdy birdy. Oooooh birdy where are you?” Heavy, breathless laughter shrieks through the night. “My _favorite_ pretty little bluebird, where could you be? Hiding your little robin from me, hmm. Come on out and play with daddy-J!”

Nightwing cuts across to the next alley and stumbles out into Joker’s line of sight. _Follow me,_ Dick prays, holding his right arm against his chest, battered and staggering across pavement. The storm seems to be holding its breath, building in anticipation about to explode, and a few solitary drops manage to slip free to announce it’s return.

Dick grins, teeth bloody (he’s sure, he can taste the iron) and salute’s the deranged man. “Catch me if you can, then.” He shoots a line, and begins the chase.

“Cat and mouse. HehehehehEHEHE, I love games! Daddy’s coming, little birdy!”

The skies explode in thunder and release their carnage in a roar of rain splattering across the mangled streets of Gotham. One small figure, clad in black and blue hobbles it’s roads in a desperate race. The rain drowns out everything else.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again. I hope this chapter stands up to the others. Not sure if it's my fav in writing but I do hope ye enjoy it! Lemme know :)

Dick kicks wildly as he’s dragged, clothe around his throat, through the broken window of a closed down electronic store. Thrown to the ground, the Joker is soon on top of him, the same crowbar in hand he had used to beat Damian, and blood still fresh. He bucks, and Joker squeals in pleasure, giggling as Dick goes rigid under him, and eyes shining in delight at his discomfort.

“Oh, little birdy. How I missed you.” The crowbar is forced against his jugular, hard enough to cut his air to sharp gasps. “ _The others just don’t get me going, like you do._ ” He chuffs in an animated, high pitched voice, mulling. “That wonderful spite, crawling up my skin every time I see your pretty little face. No daddy-bats tonight, to interrupt our playtime. Just you, me, the crowbar and the knife!” Laughter erupts, hysterical down to its insane essence.

“You can’t scare me, J.” Dick starts, playing on the man’s self-appointed nickname. And then stops cold, as the words slice deep into his skin with a hissed gasp of air and curled lips. He continues, “You’re gonna be bedding in Ar-“

But the Joker caught it, curious as a cat. “What was that, little birdy? Something the matter?” The crowbar digs in, threatening.

Careless, because Dick has to be in attitude, and because he’s got zero self-preservation when his actual _life_ is on the line. “What could possibly be the matter,” Dick smarts, sweet as sugar. “I’m perfectly comfortable.” He grins, all teeth.

Joker scoffs, eyes critical with only a hint of the typical madness. “You’re different. Not such a little innocent, _happy_ morning chirper.” He barks a laugh, “Don’t worry, we’ll fix that right up. We’ll start with a _smile_!” A knife slips from his sleeve into adept fingers, twirling over his knuckles and between fingers before the handle is firm in his palm, eyes twinkling all the while.

“We can’t all remain a five-year old mentally,” Dick cuts, putting on as much innocent Robin as he had once been, charm dripping from every word and smile sickening; and mocking. Joker halts, his lips drooping but the scars maintain the mutilated grin. Gleeful eyes turn cold, and true fear grips Dick, because a mirthless Joker is all danger.

“Oh, this will be fun.” Joker says, without an ounce of joy in his face.

Dick stares over the man’s shoulder, eyes widening through lenses. “Batman!” He shouts, reaching an arm. Joker startles and turns, knife posed, and Nightwing smirks as he bucks again, _hard,_ and the word rips across his neck as a burning, desperate lie.

Unbalanced, the Joker crumbles beside him and Dick scrambles to his feet, hurling himself towards the window to escape. He barely manages a foot before his knees are caught in a body tackle, and he goes down hard on his stomach. His lungs heave, but the air has been knocked from him and he’s left gasping relentlessly and uselessly, like a fish out of water until the Joker flips him around, leering.

Just as his breath comes back, the crowbar returns and green hair tickles Dick’s dirty cheeks as the psycho squints at his neck. His neck that stings lightly.

The man mouths the word, a silent ‘Batman’ considered on thin, red lips. He grins, and despite his lunacy, he has only succeeded thus far due to his perception, too. “That’s interesting. You just said that word, and it wasn’t there a minute ago. Hehehehehe.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dick hisses, furious and scared, and a wild animal trapped. The words scratch into his skin, a mockery, but he doesn’t flinch. It matters naught, for they give themselves away across his shoulder showing through his ripped suit. He knows because the Joker looks like the cat that caught the canary when he notices.

“My, my, my, didn’t your mummy every tell you it’s not polite to lie.”

“No.” Dick shoots, and calls back the smile, relaxes his muscles. “She taught me not to talk to strangers, especially of the murderous clown kind.” And Batman taught him to always have a back-up plan. Dick’s fingers clasp around the thin metal rod from his boot, his leg pinned at an odd angle he had purposefully managed when the Joker turned him.

He jabs it in the man’s side, the only warning a sly smirk as electricity courses through the clown above him. His suit insulates him against the currents, and he holds the rod in place as he pushes the Joker off him.

Joker is still twitching as Nightwing binds him in electric wires from nearby TVs, and he trips the alarm next door in the hopes the GPD notice, but he has no means to communicate, and he needs to double back encase Jason never came.

The storm is still savage, sheets of water shot at him by a blustering, unrelenting wind. When he crosses into the alley he abandoned his little brother in, it’s empty.

Relief shakes him to the core, and his body crumples to his knees. The rain soaks his hair and drips down his neck, an icy kiss, and his chest shakes stuttering, short heaves. Laughter, short and crisp, escapes his lips, clipped and sharp and breathless, but sobs wrack his form and he wants to cry at his own insane emotional overload. His eyes sting, and he hugs himself as he stuffs himself against the dingy alleyway wall, and just breaks down.

\---

In a small safehouse on the way to the mansion, Dick showers briskly and bandages his wounds. In a foggy mirror, in a cold bathroom, his fingers follow the lines of the Dark Knight’s name. It runs slanted from where his neck meets his shoulder, to his lower throat. It’s swollen and angry, like the Batman himself, and hard to hide without being obvious.

Dick wraps it anyways, his throat bruised and darkening from the crowbar now restricted, but he can’t do much about that. He find’s a spare set of clothes that look a lot like Timmy’s, and he eyes his torn, bloody suit for a moment of reluctance before relenting and tugging the clothes on.

He’s surprised, when the arms of the hoody drape his hands almost to the fingertips. He smirks warmly, _Timmy’s getting tall, once he’s fills in a bit, he’ll be a force to be reckoned with._ The smell of his brother off the hoodie and thoughts of the man he was becoming almost bring tears to Dick eyes, again, _and damn, is he a stressed, emotional ball of crazy right now._

He feels a small stab at thoughts of Tim, for the boy has been distant and cold since Dick had chosen Damian over Tim. His time was mostly spent with the Titans, and Dick hadn’t had a call from him in long enough to know when he was being cancelled.

He grabs the keys in the drawer and heads to the basement, to find one of Steph’s bikes sitting pretty. It’s a deep purple, and glistening from careful care. _Hope you don’t mind, Steph._ Dick kicks off, revving, and speeds from the garage.

_Please be okay, little D._

\---

The nightly patrol had turned from a few light scuffles, and dissuaded robberies to Batman in a frenzy racing around the streets of Gotham until Barbara had managed to convince him it was fruitless, and to head to the Cave. Tim had been struggling to keep up with the frantic man, trapesing the streets and alleyways of Gotham in a relentless rush.

The first warning had been Robin and Nightwing’s communicators going down. That hadn’t raised too much panic. Both his brothers knew protocol to downed communication. What truly alerted them was when both of Damian trackers went silent, either short circuited inside him or cut out. Tim’s lips had turned to a firm line at that, because they had been cut off with a time lapse, and that indicated the latter was more likely.

With Barbara’s combined effort – _mostly Barbara –_ they had convinced Bruce to return to the Cave to regroup and come up with a plan. Steph was already there, with a smile and a coffee in hand for him. Tim had taken it gratefully, and both crowded around Bruce’s shoulders as he hunched over the Batcomputer.

That was when a low, thrumming rumble took over the Cave, bouncing off it’s walls as Red Hood threw his bike to a halt and hurried off with a bundle in his arms.

“Damian,” He grunted, stalking towards them. Batman was across the room in seconds, and when Tim turned to tell Steph to get Alfred, she was hurtling up the stairs two at a time.

“Bandages!” Jason barked at Tim as he passed by, following Batman to the infirmary. Tim stared for another moment, stunned as Jason passed Bruce the medical supplies right before their Father even asked. He caught the surprised look on Bruce’s hard face, cowl pulled from his head at Jason’s own forthcoming.

 _Bandages!_ Tim’s mind reminded, and he mournfully threw the coffee away. As he helped staunch the bleeding, he watched as Bruce tersely requested items and Jason just as briskly complied.

 _Funny,_ he had snorted silently, hands moving a mile a minute and eyes critical. _One hurt robin, and the family bands together._

\---

With Damian stable, it hadn’t taken long for the air of peace to collapse. “Where is he?” Jason had snarled, rounding on Bruce.

Tim and Steph exchanged eyes, ready to jump in at the slightest indication of a fight.

Bruce looked weary, and tired as he bore dark eyes into the younger man. “Who?”

“Dick!” Jason had spat, hands curling. “He left an emergency beacon I gave him months ago on Damian in an alley. Kori noticed it, not me… Wasn’t even gonna go,” He trailed off, his eyes almost seeming as if they were looking at their father-figure (kinda, it’s complicated), but at closer glance one could tell they levelled over Bruce’s shoulder.

“Nightwing has yet to report in.” Bruce stated, not without concern. Tim knew a bit of Bruce and Dick’s current standing. Dick was avoiding Bruce like the plague and Bruce was ignoring, bullheadedly, the issues.

The fury in Jason flashed over his face, dwindling and thriving all at once. Tim studied him, looking past the fisted hands and stiff shoulders. Something else was there; waiting to be picked apart. Under the lines of tension and bottled rage… Something..

 _He’s worried._ Tim realised with a start, as Jason struggled for words when he obviously didn’t want to _show_ he cared. Tim would be lying if he said that didn’t startle him. Dick had seemed distant with everyone lately. Tim had been refusing to acknowledge him for the most part, ignoring the calls at the start and the surprise visits, in Dick’s never-ending attempts to mend their cracked relationship.

Those had faded quickly, when Tim blanked the other man or closed the door in his face. The flash of hurt that would flare up in Dick’s eyes were like a knife to the heart, but so was the other man’s doubt, and Tim held onto that harder.

Dick had been his _hero_ , and when your hero doesn’t believe you. Well, Tim learned first-hand what that felt like.

Jason though. Surprising. Because Jason spewed venom most of the time when Dick was around, and while the other man cared for his younger siblings, if a bit reluctantly, Tim certainly never thought Jason would reconcile with Dick. Especially when Jason and Bruce were just beginning to warm up to each other, and figure out how to be themselves without pushing the other’s boundaries.

Then again, Tim hadn’t been around Dick in a while. Maybe after Tim’s dismissal, Dick had turned his affections to another ‘younger brother’.

“Well,” Jason huffed, pulling his helmet back on and rubbing his arm almost awkwardly as he turned back to his bike. “He can pull himself out of whatever hole he’s in.”

Jason was revving his bike as Bruce walked over to him, and Tim felt Steph tense beside him, just in case. “How’s Roy and Liane?” Bruce had questioned, softly and honestly, as Steph relaxed with a cool breath out.

“Good.” Was Jason’s gruff reply, and he seemed to be contemplating his words before he quickly spat them out. “It’s her, obviously, and we don’t know why or who but, we’ll figure it out.”

Bruce nodded, about to offer his aid before thinking better. Jason might take it as him trying to assert control.

Tim sighed as Bruce walked back to his youngest and Jason sped off. He dragged his sore, tired body to the computer as he began searching for Dick.

A hum escaped him, as Steph’s soft, small hands began digging into the muscles in his shoulders. She smiled down to him from curled over his chair, hair hanging softly and smile bright enough to warm the world.

“Find Dick.” She commanded.

It’s hours later, when Steph has long gone to bed and Bruce has swapped posts with Tim, out on the Batcomputer while Tim watches Damian, that it turns out they don’t have to find Dick. Tim knows by the way Bruce stalks towards the incoming bike.

\---

The Cave is quiet when Dick arrives, hurdling off the bike before it stops and sparing it barely a glance as he rushes towards the medic bay.

He’s halfway there when his senses tingle, and then a hand fists itself in his shirt, hauling him back effortlessly. Bruce towers before him, dressed as the Dark Knight save for his cowl. His jaw is clenched, and his eyes fuming dark.

“ _Where. Were. You.”_ He grits, low and commanding.

Dick can’t think of anything but the panic. “Where’s Damian? What’s his condition?!” As he tries to rush past, Bruce moves in his way and forms a sturdy, muscle wall; unyielding.

“Where were you.” He demands again, cold in fury.

“I-I…” Dick stutters, stuck for words at his mentors’ anger. Bruce apparently doesn’t like his answer, and Dick only has a fraction of a second to widen his eyes as the man’s fist breaks upon his cheek, just below the eye.

He doesn’t even hit the ground, as he’s yanked by Tim’s hoodie and forced against a wall, held up by Bruce’s brutish strength. “Jason brought him in, bleeding out. _Jason!_ ” Bruce spits, and the look in his eyes scares Dick far more than the Joker’s ever could. “He said he didn’t even watch that beacon anymore! It was _luck_ he even noticed. Damian is alive, because of **_luck._** ”

“Damian’s alive,” Dick gasps.

“Not because of you. _Where were you!_ ” Bruce’s forearm against his throat contradicts his demand, and Dick is gasping a reply when his eyes widen.

“Bruce! Get off him!” Tim yells, throwing himself at his father and restraining his arm. Shock had turned his blood cold when Bruce lashed out at Dick, flinging himself out the infirmary door when Bruce’s intentions were not driven by the sights of his son, alive.

“Timmy-no!” Dick strains against Bruce, but he snarls and throws Tim to the ground.

Tim rolls to his feet, crouched, and is about to intercept again when he looks up to see Dick, acrobat-older-brother-pacifist-Dick, _dislocate_ his shoulder with a press of his feet against the wall behind him as he twists his torso and a sickening _pop._ All thoughts of helping Dick fall away as Tim turns to the side and retches, stomach clenching and throat closing in spasms.

 _Gross,_ Tim closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and raises his head.

“-Ever _hit_ them, do you _fucking_ hear me!” Dick stands between his younger brother and Bruce, one arm cradled, hanging by his side. He’s slumped, leaning to the side and Tim can’t see the severity in his eyes but he hears the venom in his voice, and the surprise on Bruce’s.

“Dick, I’m fine.” Tim stands, approaching warily. If either of them starts again, he really doesn’t want to have to get in the way. He eyes Dick critically, from the turn of his head to assess Tim, to the bruise blooming on his cheek and the scuffled, tired way he was holding himself.

He doesn’t really feel like helping Dick out at the moment; _lie in the grave you dig_. But, the man is on the brink of collapse, and whatever did happen between Dick and Damian leaving, and Jason carrying a beaten Robin into the cave, it was likely not completely on Dick. Dick wouldn’t just abandon Damian, and the thought came with a stinging sensation. _Dick would do anything for Damian._

And with that in mind, Tim sourly stuffs himself under Dick’s arm and helps him hobble to the infirmary. “A few broken ribs, a lot of bruising. A mild concussion that bled a lot, along with a deep wound in his thigh that also bled a lot, leading to a blood transfusion. No broken bones. Two fingers were sprained, it looked like from fighting back, not inflicted. And some rope burns. Nothing permanent.” Tim lists systematically, knowing it will calm Dick.

Damian is under a blanket, looking for all the world in a deep sleep when he deposits Dick, none-to-gently, on a plastic chair.

“Is Jason gone?” Tim cuts his eyes to the older man, again surprised at the undertone of _something_ hanging there.

“Yeah, with Liane alive again, he seems pretty busy with the Outlaws.” He begins helping Dick out of the hoodie, hands stalling on the soft, worn fabric.

Dick notices, and shrugs softly, a small laugh escaping his lips. “Sorry- yeah I think it’s yours. I hit up a safehouse on my way. Needed a bike or something.” Dick won’t meet his eyes, and Tim’s fists tighten in the clothe at the words. _Dick went for a shower before making sure Damian was okay._

Tim takes a bit of pleasure in Dick’s hiss as the hoodie is tugged from his dislocated shoulder, but not in the silent, lip pressed inhale he makes through his nose as his arm is forced back into place.

Dick’s eyes shift rapidly, and his head stays low. His fingers twitch towards Damian, and when he thinks Tim isn’t looking, guilt shades his eyes a darker blue. Tim doesn’t press the random bandages curling Dick’s obviously bruised throat, or the ones curled around his wrist and forearm in odd places.

Bruce eventually enters, his presence chilling the room. And if Tim thought Dick wouldn’t meet his eyes, he’s stoutly avoiding Bruce as the man hands him a file report and a pen. Dick takes it silently, and begins scrawling down on the sheets diligently. Bruce doesn’t linger.

He wonders at the paper; Bruce mostly asks for oral reports off the bat and later for it to be digitalised in full. The sheet of paper and lack of persistence ( _now_ ), on a verbal answer is odd.

Dick rigorously fills in the report, until dawn in taking hold and Tim is dozing in his chair. The other man’s shuffling startles him from half-sleep, and he notices Damian is gone. Dick must read his confusion, and sounding like sandpaper, whispers, “Bruce took him to his bed.” Tim winces at the grating sound, and the pain Dick must be in.

Dick is tugging on the hoodie again, and Tim’s eyes latch onto the fumbling, awkward movement. Dick has clothes upstairs; he doesn’t need to wear Tim’s hoodie. “You’re leaving?” He asks, incredulous.

Dick’s eyes become shifty again, and his body almost locks before rolling back into calm. “Got work tomorrow.” He croaks, turning.

“You’re in no condition.”

“I’m fine.” A short, sharp inhale of air follows the biting words. Dick almost seems to jump, back tensing in agitation at something.

“See.” Tim snorts. “You’re sore.”

Dick turns towards him slightly. “I’m not staying.”

There’s something in the words that catch Tim, and he remembers the fist crashing upon Dick’s unexpecting cheek. “Dick,” Tim starts softly, moving closer. “Bruce shouldn’t have hit you. That was… unnecessary.”  
  
“It’s fine.” Dick hisses, edgy. He twitches again after, inhaling like before.

“What-?”   
  
“Look, Timmy. I’m tired, I’m… going to go home. Bruce was angry,” Dick seems to struggle for words, “And I’ve work tomorrow. Go to bed.”

He deflates after, and Tim isn’t sure he knows the man walking away from him. He feels lost, his anger from before slipping from his fingers like sand, and the feeling like something is _very_ wrong turning his thoughts dark. He feels like he should stop Dick; make him stay.

Like Dick walking away now is something very final. Something Tim doesn’t understand yet, because he’s never crossed a bridge like this. Something he can’t stop, because he doesn’t know the words to say or how to sooth the hurt of son thrown aside by his father.

He doesn’t know how to fix something like a golden hero descending from the light in likeness to grace failing, or the Dark Knight resigning. He’s never been so high, as to hold that weight. Dick was sown together through the harsh steps of his life, knowing death and life, despair and teammates and loneliness. He was born to lead with too much self-reliance and sacrificial tendencies to do so.

He had stood up to the Justice League, to his peers, his father and every person of villainous intent he ever came across with an easy smile and burning passion.

And now, he’s slouched; curling in on himself. Tim stands in the doorway of the infirmary for a long while, the echoes of Dick’s bike, leaving, roaring through his mind.

He’s upstairs, making coffee with his mind in a whirl. He’ll spend the night analysing Dick’s reactions and words and figure out what in the hell is going on with his older brother. Steph will help too, he’s sure. She can even go do reconnaissance under the lieu of hanging out with Dick.

The coffee machine stutters to a stop, unfinished, and Tim blinks widely as the lights go off on it. His brows furrow, and he swivels his head. He jumps at the sight of Alfred, face turned in mild amusement with the plug to the machine in his hand.

“Bed, master Timothy.”

“But-!”

Alfred clears his throat, cutting him off and stares at him silently, his eyebrows raising every so slightly when Tim begins to protest again.

“Bed.” Tim mutters sourly, and turns away. “Night, Al.”

“Goodnight, Master Tim. _Sleep well_.”

\---

Dick struggles to get home, his arm trembling from fatigue and pain. As he parks the bike and stumbles off onto wobbly legs, nothing smarts more than the stinging of his cheek; swelling. He’s been the source of Bruce’s disappointment too many times to count, but that rage he hadn’t seen often since he was Robin; and most of the time, it was directed at those culpable for harm to Dick himself.

It stabbed at Dick, right where he wanted to scream, _“I took care of Damian once. I’ve felt that fury. Don’t treat me like I haven’t. Like I don’t_ love _him!”_

The writing across his skin in slashes didn’t even come close to that pain. Blood speckles his wrist through the white bandages, and the part of Dick raised by Batman compartmentalises the fact that when he _lied_ to Tim, saying ‘I’m fine’, it dug in deeper to the previous wound from such words to Raven.

He’s staggering to his stairs, almost laughing, because _he didn’t know there was freedom in lying to yourself. Who knew, how deep it would cut to have your every weakness scarred across your skin; undeniable._

A noise, soft and rolling, stops him short. His softens his breath, and focuses, as a scratching sound comes, followed by another humming cry. He follows it, stumbling to a sodden box. Peaking inside, a small, fluffy, white, brown and black face peers up at him, two deep, emerald eyes blinking.

The kitten mewls pathetically, wobbling around inside the box on clumsy, clawed paws and scratching at the sides. It bores its eyes into him, sitting back on its haunches with a thwump and mewling again, louder.

It looks at him expectantly, a tortoise fluffball and purrs when he picks it up and holds it against his chest. The purrs are a bit stuttering, and its claws dig into his skin through his shirt gratefully, as it nudges its wet head against his neck and under his chin with force.

Dick laughs softly at the affection and starts for his stairs again. “I guess you can come with me, little guy… I could use a friend.”

The kitten mreows, as if it understands. “Yeah, you too?” He jokes, “Well, you’re getting a bath first, just this once. Dunno who left you, but it was their mistake.”


End file.
